


And All the Girls Dreamed That They'd Be Your Partner

by HarveyWallbanger



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Gotham (TV)
Genre: Arkham Asylum, Gen, Mental Institutions, discussion of physical and psychological abuse, incarceration, threatened sexual assault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-03
Updated: 2015-08-03
Packaged: 2018-04-12 17:11:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4487910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HarveyWallbanger/pseuds/HarveyWallbanger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You're so vain, you probably think this crime spree's about you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	And All the Girls Dreamed That They'd Be Your Partner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MillicentCordelia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MillicentCordelia/gifts).



> For MillicentCordelia, on the occasion of her (belated) natal anniversary. Many happy returns!  
> This is a continuation of the storyline in "I Waited For the Joke- It Never Did Arrive", and will make more sense if you read that first.  
> The title comes from the song, You're So Vain, by Carly Simon, and the quote in the summary is an adaptation of another line from it.  
> I am not involved in the production of Gotham, and this school is not involved in the production of Gotham. No one pays me to do this. Do not try any of this at home. Thank you, and good night.

This place might technically be a hospital, but it's so bad for your health. Between the long periods of inactivity, and the medication they put her on, Barbara's gained at least ten pounds. If Mother could see her now. She hadn't smoked since high school, but she's started again, just to have something to look forward to, other than the occasional field trip to la-la land. Either she sleeps too much, or not at all, and the food is certainly not gluten-free, or low-carb. She's been hanging out with all kinds of maladjusted types.  
She's hanging out with them, now, in fact, in the little fenced-in area outside, because they've all been good, good children and it's such a beautiful day. The sky is deep blue, the sun is soft in the light it sheds, and the trees undulate gently in the breeze. As Barbara looks at the grass, thinking about the color green and how truly weird it is- how it's the color of a plant's blood- how it's neither blue nor yellow, but evokes them both- a pretty woman with blonde hair comes clicking up the walk to Arkham's front entrance.  
“New girl!” barks one of Barbara's fellows.  
“That's no girl,” spits another, “That's a doctor.”  
“Dr. Girl,” laughs a third.  
“I'd like some one-on-one therapy with her,” says the first man.  
“I don't like that,” Barbara says primly.  
“You want Dr. Girl all to yourself, don't you?”  
Barbara smiles. “I'd have a better idea of what to do with her than you would.”  
A collective 'Ooh' rises to the sky and evaporates. The guards look, but don't move.  
“That's cos you don't know what to do with a man.”  
She rolls her eyes. She yawns, “You think you're so hot, but you're nothing but spare parts.”  
“I've got a spare part for you!” someone shouts.  
“Cut it off and give it to me, and I'll see what I can do.”  
After that, there's no more on the topic. Men are predictable. They can throw shit around, but they don't like it thrown back at them. Deep down, they're all afraid- of women, but mainly, of themselves. Seeing themselves reflected in someone else. You show them violence in a woman, and suddenly, they start crying for Mommy. Even Jason would have run away, in the end. They just can't take the competition.

It's like looking in a mirror.  
“We could be sisters,” Barbara says softly, with a smile.  
“Yes,” says Dr. Quinzel, flipping through her notes, “I did notice the resemblance.” She looks up. “You're going to have to bear with me, Ms. Kean-”  
“Barbara. Please.”  
“Barbara. You're going to have to bear with me. I've only been here a few days, and I haven't had a chance to familiarize myself with all of my cases.”  
“I could just tell you about myself. If you want, you can ask me why I think I'm here.”  
“All right,” Dr. Quinzel closes the file, “Tell me about yourself. Why do you think you're here, Barbara?”  
“I attacked my ex-boyfriend's new girlfriend. It was wrong; I know that, now. I just couldn't- I was so tired, Doctor, of having things taken from me. Do you know what that's like?”  
“It's not about me, Barbara.”  
“I know. But can you imagine what it's like? To have everything taken from you, by precisely the people who you're supposed to trust the most?”  
“Like who?”  
Barbara sighs, “Like my parents. Like my boyfriends. Like my girlfriends. It's partly my fault, I suppose. They're like vampires: once you let them in the first time, they can come back for more, anytime they want to.”  
“Why do you think this happens?”  
“I don't know. People are rotten, on the inside? You can't trust them? No matter how much you want to.”  
“You want to trust people.”  
“Yes,” Barbara laughs, “Don't you? Don't you dream of unconditional love, and total acceptance? If you want that, you have to take the first step, don't you? Give something to get something?”  
“What you describe is the basis of every healthy relationship. Why do you think yours went wrong?”  
“Bad luck? I honestly don't know, Doctor.”  
“All right. How did you get from wanting to share yourself with your loved ones to feeling like they were using you?”  
“I never see it coming. It happens over time, I guess. That's what happened with Jim. I guess he saw enough, or got what he wanted, and he didn't have a reason to put up with me anymore.”  
“Is that why you attacked Dr. Thompkins?”  
“I don't know. After what happened with Jason, I guess I thought I was better, but I wasn't. Maybe I should have taken Dr. Thompkins' advice and found a more experienced therapist.” She laughs, then, feels it coming from all the way down, like the laughter is buried in the earth, and it's just tunneling its way up through her.  
For a moment, Dr. Quinzel just looks at her, a little lost behind her glasses, and her lab coat, and her files. It's okay, Barbara wants to tell her, you can laugh; it's funny. Instead, she leans forward. The guards stir, but make no move. Still laughing, she pats Dr. Quinzel's hand, and is rewarded with a smile.

“You have a nice time with Dr. Girl?” This guy's new, so Barbara's willing to let him learn. But he's going to learn.  
“I did. She's a good listener,” she answers, as though the man had asked her a real question, rather than just leered at her. It's fun doing that to them, acting like you just don't get what they're trying to do.  
“If you think she'd be down for a threeway, I'd be willing to share.”  
“I don't like that,” Barbara says airily, regards her fingernails. She can understand why they won't let her have scissors or a metal nail file, but what harm could an emery board and some nail polish do?  
“Oh, you'd like it a lot, I bet,” sneers this man, this big, dumb man who might have a name, but Barbara doesn't know it, and she really, really doesn't care.  
They really should bolt down these chairs. They're light enough for her to lift, but they're still made of metal bars, and no one likes a metal bar to the skull. This man certainly doesn't. She's not very strong, so it takes a few whacks to accomplish her goal, but she's faster than he is, and surprise is on her side, so a matter of a minute sees the offending party on the floor, with blood coming out of his head in all sorts of interesting ways.  
The guards can't move as fast as she can, either, so by the time they get to her, she's dropped the chair and is backing away, her hands in the air.  
“All right, all right,” she sighs, “Take me away, you big, strong men.” She giggles. “I want to be alone.”

Dr. Quinzel looks troubled.  
“What's up, Doc?” Barbara asks.  
“Your behavior is unacceptable, Barbara.”  
“So was his, but I don't see him getting a lecture.”  
“He didn't attack anyone with a chair.”  
“It was just a matter of time before he did something unpleasant. Something else, I mean. That's why we're all here. We're criminals, but we're just this side of coo-coo, so we're not normal criminals, can't go to normal jail. That man was a monster. With monsters, you either shove them back down under the bed, or they eat you alive.”  
“How did you know he was a monster?”  
“How did I know?”  
“Yes. What did he do or say to make you afraid of him?”  
“I wasn't afraid of him. I was...” she contemplates the ceiling, “disgusted, I guess. Like, why do these guys think anyone is interested in them? Of course, they know nobody is, so they act like they can just take what they want. The lack of self-control is so off-putting. Take a shower and learn how to have a conversation; maybe then, you'll get a girlfriend.”  
“Brutish men make you angry?”  
“Not angry. I just think, What's the point? Like, okay, Jason might have been a horrible person, but at least he made an effort to look good.”  
“So, your issue is with style, as opposed to substance?”  
“We're all violent people, Doctor. We all want to do terrible things. But there has to be something behind it- some purpose, or statement- and you have to think about presentation. These things matter. But, I guess, as women, we just take this for granted. Men think they can do whatever they want, and if you don't like it, it's your problem.”  
“That's a unique point of view.”  
“I guess.”  
“It almost sounds like you admire Jason.”  
“Admire him?” she snorts, “No. I don't admire him. I hate him. He makes me sick. I still dream about him, Doctor, the things he did to me, how he made me feel. How he tried to destroy me. At least, he was open about it, though. The one thing he never did was lie to me. He told me the truth.”  
“About what?”  
“Myself. He made me realize who I am.”  
“Who's that.”  
Barbara smiles. “Why, a monster, of course.”

These people scare easily. Barbara almost feels bad for them, their automatic terror and compulsive superstition, but no, not really. They say that she's a witch, a vampire, some kind of genetic freak. It just goes to show how little they understand women. She's perfectly normal. She's the most normal thing there is. The new boys get a lecture, now: Don't mess with the blonde bitch. It all gets exaggerated- Barbara ate a man's face; Barbara ripped off a guy's arm; Barbara had sex with the Devil- but it's so flattering. It's not the shallow, twitching fame of the society pages; she's a legend, now. She's a scary story. They call her the Queen of Pain- the Woman Who Laughs- Jill the Ripper- Mrs. Ogre. This last name, she doesn't care for, but it's still better than being who she was. Whoever that person actually is. Whoever she is, Barbara feels further and further from her everyday, as though she were someone Barbara once met, briefly, before they went their separate ways.  
“You never talk about yourself,” she says during her next session with Dr. Quinzel.  
“That's beyond the scope of the therapeutic relationship.”  
“You know what would be really therapeutic?” she says, grinning, leaning toward the doctor, who inclines a little toward Barbara, before clearing her throat and sitting back. “If we pretended to just be two normal girls, talking about normal things, instead of a doctor and a freak.”  
“You're not a freak, Barbara. You've just made some bad choices.”  
“I know that. But can't we just pretend, for a second, to be normal?”  
Dr. Quinzel sighs. “What do you want to talk about?”  
“Tell me about yourself. Are you from Gotham?”  
“No, actually,” she says, shifting in her chair, “I'm from Brooklyn.”  
“How interesting. I've been to the city, but never to any of the boroughs. What was it like, living there?”  
“Not terribly remarkable. It's just a place, where people live.”  
“Well, Gotham's not just a place, as I'm sure you've figured out.”  
“What do you mean by that?”  
“There's something in the air, or maybe the water, that makes the people who live here different.”  
“In what way?”  
“Did you work in a place like this, in Brooklyn?”  
“No, but I went to medical school and did my residency in the city.”  
“I'm sure you saw some crazy stuff, right?”  
“You could say that,” Dr. Quinzel says, with a little smile.  
“Was any of it like what you've seen since you came here? Murderers in costumes- gangsters shooting at each other in the streets- deranged scientists?”  
“I would have to say 'no'.”  
“What do you think the difference is, between New York and Gotham?”  
“I don't know, really. It's just different here, I guess.”  
“And do you feel different, since you came to Gotham?”  
Dr. Quinzel takes off her glasses, looks down. “I'm not sure. It's like, suddenly... I feel almost like my life doesn't belong to me anymore. It's like I'm living by a script.”  
“That's what this place does to you. It's Gotham, and it's Arkham, especially. We all become who we really are, here; after a while, you can't hide it anymore.”  
She puts her glasses back on. “Barbara... that's not the way it works. We might sometimes feel like our lives are out of our control, but really, we decide to do the things we do; no one actually controls us, or makes us act out some kind of plan.”  
“Oh, Dr. Quinzel, you're so close to understanding. Someday, you're going to learn what we all learn.”  
“What's that?”  
“Well, just that you can't escape yourself. One way or another, you're going to have to face that person in the mirror. And when that happens, there's only one thing you can do.”  
“And what's that?”  
“Greet her with a smile.”

Life is funny. For a long time, nothing will happen, and then, suddenly, everything will happen at once. After months of silence, Barbara's lawyer asks to meet with her, all aflutter, because he's found a judge willing to let her out.  
“You wouldn't be completely free. You'd be on probation for five years, house arrest for six months. You'd have to see a therapist regularly, stay on your medication...”  
“Could I pick the therapist? It's just that I've developed a rapport with someone who works here.”  
“I don't know, Barbara. The court usually assigns someone they find suitable.”  
“Who's more suitable than the doctor who's been treating me for three months?”  
“I'll see what I can do. What's his name?”  
“Her name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel.”  
Her lawyer dutifully writes this down. “All right, Barbara, I'll see what I can do.”  
“Good,” she smiles, “please do.”  
The smile's still on her face when she walks into therapy that afternoon.  
“Hello, Dr. Quinzel,” she says, and drops into her seat. “May I call you 'Harleen'?”  
“'Harley', if you'd like.”  
“Harley. That's cute.”  
“You're in a good mood, today.”  
“My lawyer just informed me that I'm going home. And guess who's coming with me.”  
“Who?”  
“Why, you, of course.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I mean that you're going to be my private therapist, once I get out of this place.”  
“Barbara, I don't think I can do that.”  
“Well, why not? Don't you want to?”  
“It has nothing to do with what I want; it's a matter of what's best for you, as my patient. I'm concerned that you may be beginning to see me as something other than a therapist.”  
“Oh, and what's that?”  
“Well, as a friend. I'm not your friend, Barbara; I'm your doctor, and I have an obligation to do what I believe is most appropriate for your health and well-being.”  
“Doctor, I like you a lot, but I know who you are, and I know who I am. I just don't want to leave here, and have to explain everything to some stranger who isn't going to understand, who really is going to think I'm a freak. Someone who's going to try to get famous by treating the poor little rich girl who got herself sent to Arkham. I need to protect myself from people like that, and there are going to be a lot of them. Will you help me? Please?”  
“All right, Barbara, but there are some things we need to discuss, in light of what's transpired during your time here. I need to be able to attest, possibly even testify in court, to your commitment to your recovery.”  
“All right.”  
“I need assurances that you're going to do everything possible to turn your life around.”  
“Yes.”  
“Which means that you can't continue to have... confrontations with your fellow inmates.”  
“I have to defend myself. I'm a woman here, alone, and the guards don't come to your aid until they actually see the blood pouring out of you.” This is true, actually. She's made men bleed, seen them bleed and bleed, while the guards just waited to clean up the mess.  
“Okay, Barbara.”  
“No, you don't understand how dangerous it is. Not just for me, but for you. I've heard the men here talking about you.”  
“Oh?” She looks down.  
“Yes, and I won't tell you what they say, but if you knew, you wouldn't think I was the scary one.”  
“Okay, Barbara. Okay.”  
“Do you understand, Doctor? Harley?”  
“I think I do.”  
“Good.”  
“Another thing we need to talk about, Barbara, is your role in the deaths of your parents.”  
“What do you mean?”  
“I've never heard you express any remorse.”  
“What am I supposed to say?” she laughs, “That I'm very sorry that the charming, handsome man I met at a nightclub, who I thought actually liked me, kidnapped me, and drugged me, and tortured me, and forced me, with a knife held to my throat, to take him to my parents' house, where he forced me to watch as he stabbed them- and when that wasn't enough for him, made me cut their throats? Where, exactly, do I fit in, here, because I don't see any of myself in this scenario. I just see Jason. What he wanted. What he forced me to do. Yes, I wake up every morning wishing that I hadn't been so terrified of dying that I let that monster into my parents' home. Yes, I wish that I had been strong enough to stop him, somehow. But I wasn't. I've never been able to stop any of the things that were done to me, and this time, someone else got it even worse.”  
“Okay, Barbara.”  
“Now, if we're done, I think I want to lie down for a while.”  
“That's fine.”  
As the guards walk her back to her room, Barbara wonders if she actually meant any of what she just said. It was the right thing to say, certainly. It seems like something she could feel. But does she actually feel it? And is the fact of a feeling as important as the performance of it? It seems to her that what people can observe is the most important thing. No one, after all, can see inside of you, so how can they know what's real?  
No, it's as she always knew, even if she couldn't express it: the only thing that matters is the image that people can see.

What of the rest, though?  
Well, that's for you, obviously.  
With the promise of her freedom, Barbara finds that she suddenly again has the luxury of a future. For a few days, she drifts happily through the haze of imagining the drinks and manicures and online shopping that await her. Things that are such ordinary parts of her life, so completely boring, but so thrilling, now, that she's still here, among unpleasant men and stone-faced guards. Then, as though shot through with lightning, the fog dissolves: what's the point of going home if she's just going to return to the life she left behind? Worse: try to live an imitation of the life that was torn from her. What was all of this for, if she's going to do that? With the shock of despair, she knows that she can't. Everything has changed, and it's time to live up to her boasts to Harley and show herself capable of meeting what looks at her from the mirror.  
The question is, how to do it? Acceptance and understanding is one thing, but the actual details... That's where the Devil dwells. She, of course, is supposed by her fellow inmates to be on very intimate terms with that particular gentleman, so this shouldn't be a problem. She's going to be under house arrest for six months. Surely, in that much time, she can figure something out. 

Another month, and she's back in her apartment, like nothing happened. The crime scene people have been there and gone. Some of her clothes are missing. There's absolutely no food or liquor in the house. If Selina and Ivy were there, they left no trace.  
“Home sweet,” she sighs to her lawyer and the Gotham City technician who've accompanied her up for the fitting of her fabulous new accessory.  
“Luckily, wide-legged pants are in, this season,” she says, holding out her ankle for the technician. Then, it's over, and the men leave, and she's all alone again.  
“How does it feel to be home again?” Harley asks the next day, during their session.  
“Lonely.”  
“Unfortunately, you're going to have to get used to being alone. It's something we all have to do.”  
“Though, I'm not really alone, am I?”  
“Oh?”  
“I have you.”  
“Barbara-”  
“I wasn't being inappropriate; just stating a fact. You might not be my friend, but you're still company, and I think we make a pretty good team. Therapeutically speaking.”  
“So,” Harley says, clearing her throat and regarding her notepad, “what are your long-term plans?”  
“That's what I'm trying to figure out. I really want to make something of what happened to me, to make it matter, somehow. I just can't figure out how. It's one thing to know that you have a purpose, and to have a vague idea of what it is, but it's another to actually live that way. Though, I'm sure you know all about that.”  
“Oh?”  
“Well, you have a purpose: you're a doctor; you help people. What made you want to be a psychiatrist?”  
“I suppose that I've always been interested in why people do the things they do. I just sort of gravitated toward Abnormal Psychology because that was where things got really complex. There's so much about the brain in its ideal state that we don't yet understand; factor in disease, substance abuse, somatic and/or psychological trauma, and it becomes a truly alien landscape.”  
“So, you find me interesting?”  
“I find all of my patients interesting. That helps me to treat them.”  
“You can't help someone who bores you.”  
“No, I just find it easier to concentrate on fascinating problems and puzzles.”  
“Jim knew someone like that, at work. A guy called Edward 'something'. He was obsessed with riddles.”  
“Oh?”  
“Yeah. He was always telling them to Jim, and then, Jim would tell them to me. I wonder if he tells them to Leslie, now, or if she also hears them at work, from Edward. She and Jim work together, you know. Of course you know; it's in my file.”  
“Do you remember any of the riddles?”  
“Not really. Well, I remember one.”  
“May I hear it?”  
“What goes up a chimney down, but won't go down a chimney up?”  
“What?”  
“An umbrella. I know,” she makes a face, “It wasn't a very good riddle.”  
“It was.”  
“No,” Barbara laughs, shaking her head, “Anyway, I think that I like jokes better than riddles. I just like to laugh.”  
“Well, that's okay. I might not look it, Barbara, but I like to laugh, too.”

“Your hair!” Harley gasps.  
“I know!” Barbara squeals, shaking her head back and forth so that her newly verdant tresses fly away from her head like vines.  
“It's green.”  
“Actually, it's called 'Envy'.”  
“What brought this on?”  
“It's not like I can go out, so I have to make my own fun, here at home.”  
“Barbara, let's sit down.”  
“Okay.”  
They sit; Harley, as always, with her notepad and files resting on her knees, though she never pages through them in Barbara's presence.  
“Barbara, your term of house arrest is going to be over in less than a month, which means that my sessions with you will also come to an end, and I want to know if you've given any further thought to what you're going to do in the future.”  
“I have.”  
“Good. And what have you decided?”  
“I've been thinking a lot about art.”  
“Art? Like painting?”  
“More like performance art. Something multimedia. I feel like I have something to say, and I want to figure out how to say it.”  
“That's good. That's good, Barbara. So, have you been looking at studio spaces, pricing materials...”  
“Well, that'll be easier to do when I have my freedom. I really want to be hands-on. I think that selecting materials is an important part of the process; you might be changing something, but it never gets too far from its original form.”  
“This is such a positive development. I'm so proud of you. Art can be very therapeutic.”  
“Don't worry, though,” she pats Harley's hand, “I still need the regular kind of therapy. I still need you.”

* * *

“I know it's after hours...”  
Embarrassingly, Harley lets out a little hoot of surprise before spinning around, holding before her the small knife attached to her keyring, which she bought when she started working at Arkham.  
It's Barbara. The months since her house arrest and her sessions with Harley ended have been kind to her. She looks good. She hasn't lost weight, but she looks toned, now, like she's been working out; below her short skirt, her legs are muscled like a dancer's. The hair's still green, though now cut into a bob. Barbara looks very good. Harley lets herself relax a little in one way as she grows tense in another.   
“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Barbara says, with a little smile, “I didn't mean to scare you.”  
“Oh. Barbara. No, I'm sorry,” Harley laughs and looks down at her knife, “It's just, these murders...” Victims with nothing in common, left in public places, in strange, sometimes ridiculous poses. There's a sense of movement to the bodies' postures, of fleeing from or toward something. It's like the killer's trying to express an idea, but isn't yet fluent in their language of choice.  
“Of course. I don't know how anyone could expect a woman to walk around at night unarmed.”  
Harley puts her keys in her coat pocket. “How are you doing?”  
“I'm okay. I miss our sessions,” Barbara says, a shy lowering of her lashes at odds with her confrontational look.  
“Well, I'm glad that they seem to have done you some good.”  
“What I was saying, before, actually, was that I know it's after hours, and you probably want to go home, but do you think you could spare a few minutes to chat with a very lonely girl?”  
That's when Harley knows. Barbara is a dangerous girl. In what way, Harley cannot say, but it's a truth as solid as the ground beneath her feet. Now, her pulse is thundering in her head. “I don't know,” Harley looks around, “This is really irregular.”  
“'Irregular' can be good. Sometimes, 'irregular' is what you need.”  
She might have a point, but Harley is  
Harley's caught, and she knows it. And, shit, it's always the same old thing, whether you're seventeen or thirty-five. She's always getting in trouble in the same ways, and all the degrees and case studies in the world won't make her make sense to herself. “Barbara...”  
“I know that I'm not your patient anymore, and if you don't think it's right, I'll back off. I'll never bother you again.”  
“It really wouldn't be appropriate,” Harley says, not even trying to hide the sadness in her voice. Why does doing the right thing always feel like defeat?  
“It's okay. Thank you for everything, though, Doctor. Good night.”  
Barbara turns and starts walking back toward her car. And Harley's definitely not watching her ass, or her legs, or her shoulders, or thinking about how strong she looks, or wondering what it is about Barbara that makes Harley want to run. And makes Harley want to stay put, wrap around the moment, wrap around Barbara and never fucking let go. Shit. Shit. She's so fucking stupid. She starts to run.  
So fucking stupid.  
“Barbara! Wait!” she calls, her voice a snarl of silver thread lighting up the dark air. Barbara turns, that gorgeous, bewitching smile on her face, and Harley's caught, Harley's wounded, Harley's dead. And the dead have the privilege of indifference, so Harley doesn't care. About anything but her hand on the leather of Barbara's coat, and the tight heat of Barbara's shoulder beneath, and the scent of her perfume suddenly filling up the night.  
“Barbara,” she pants, not caring how she sounds, “Barbara. It's okay. I think I can give you some of my time.”


End file.
